f: Heat (PG-13, R/S)
Heat, R...ish... okay PG-13, 400 words. For Day 3 of wellymuck.
The air drifting in through the window was heavy with wet lukewarmth and pollen, invisible things that made Remus sneeze and that made Sirius insane, made his eyes dark and darting, made his hand rest too long on the thinning hem of Remus's jumper.
James was gone. Lily had made him mad months before the season changed. So it was just Peter to witness, Peter to shift uncomfortably while he watched them across the table.
"Did your mum tell you that?" Sirius was whispering in Remus's ear. "'Remember to layer, Remus,' eh? I bet you wash behind your ears, too." Peter knew that taunting tone, but the look on Sirius's face was new, open and animal. "Do you wash behind your ears, Moony?"
"Yes," Remus murmured without looking up, "and I hope you do, too."
Sirius snorted and sat straight again, catching Peter's eyes and holding them in lazy challenge until Peter gave in and pinched his eyebrows together.
"Something on your face," Sirius explained, the corner of his pink mouth twitching, and he leaned back over to Remus. "Do the backs of your ears taste like soap, then?"
Peter frowned down at his book for a moment, bunching up his fists. "I wouldn't know," he heard Remus say, so calm, as if boys breathed onto his neck all the time and Sirius's grin was innocent.
Peter gave into the urge to wipe a hand over his face, fingers stalling in the hollows of his eyes, but nothing was there. He looked at the clock, wishing for James, wishing Lily still wore knickers beneath her skirts and did not shift her thighs so easily when James looked in her direction.
"It seems," Sirius said quietly, "like a thing one ought to."
The air in the greenhouse would be simply heavy hot. Sirius would peel Remus's jumper off and cast it aside, fingers frantic at his shirt buttons, hands and hips seeking the thumping, steady pulse of the Earth in Remus's veins.
And they would never think, never spare a thought that east and up, all the way up to the top of the tower, Peter would keep his curtains open to the empty bedroom and the faint smell of flowers, and Peter would know -- never a thought, until they stumbled in with pollen crusted in the moist curves of their elbows and saw his open eyes.
The air drifting in through the window was heavy with wet lukewarmth and pollen, invisible things that made Remus sneeze and that made Sirius insane, made his eyes dark and darting, made his hand rest too long on the thinning hem of Remus's jumper.
James was gone. Lily had made him mad months before the season changed. So it was just Peter to witness, Peter to shift uncomfortably while he watched them across the table.
"Did your mum tell you that?" Sirius was whispering in Remus's ear. "'Remember to layer, Remus,' eh? I bet you wash behind your ears, too." Peter knew that taunting tone, but the look on Sirius's face was new, open and animal. "Do you wash behind your ears, Moony?"
"Yes," Remus murmured without looking up, "and I hope you do, too."
Sirius snorted and sat straight again, catching Peter's eyes and holding them in lazy challenge until Peter gave in and pinched his eyebrows together.
"Something on your face," Sirius explained, the corner of his pink mouth twitching, and he leaned back over to Remus. "Do the backs of your ears taste like soap, then?"
Peter frowned down at his book for a moment, bunching up his fists. "I wouldn't know," he heard Remus say, so calm, as if boys breathed onto his neck all the time and Sirius's grin was innocent.
Peter gave into the urge to wipe a hand over his face, fingers stalling in the hollows of his eyes, but nothing was there. He looked at the clock, wishing for James, wishing Lily still wore knickers beneath her skirts and did not shift her thighs so easily when James looked in her direction.
"It seems," Sirius said quietly, "like a thing one ought to."
The air in the greenhouse would be simply heavy hot. Sirius would peel Remus's jumper off and cast it aside, fingers frantic at his shirt buttons, hands and hips seeking the thumping, steady pulse of the Earth in Remus's veins.
And they would never think, never spare a thought that east and up, all the way up to the top of the tower, Peter would keep his curtains open to the empty bedroom and the faint smell of flowers, and Peter would know -- never a thought, until they stumbled in with pollen crusted in the moist curves of their elbows and saw his open eyes.